In the morning, he ate enough breakfast to have Maggie go squinty-eyed at him, then trotted off to interrogate the new staff on the names of the new estate agent.
Simon personally preferred riding up to the Hall and confronting the owner, but apparently, the aristocracy did things differently. So he wrote notes to the viscount, the steward, and the agent.
Viva la difference, he thought, as Olivia floated by his office door on some errand. As always, she wore acres of skirts and looked as if dust wouldn’t dare land on her, but he smiled in memory of all the ways he’d touched her. Neither of them had slept much.
Now that he knew her slender waist supported a braw pair of tits, and her skirts concealed a lacy bit of nothing made just for his knob, he could hardly stop thinking of her. If he was lucky, the lady simply wanted the same as he did—a lusty roll in the hay. Perhaps once she owned the Hall again, she’d allow him to visit occasionally. Widows had needs just as he did.
His desk drawer slid open an inch without his touching it. While he glared at that anomaly, a pup skittered down the hall, rolling up the rug, bouncing off a sturdy table, then scampering from sight. Another drawer opened. One of the twins pounded past, halted in his doorway, and didn’t even look at him before continuing her chase, presumably after the puppy.
Simon carried his correspondence into the corridor, thinking to deliver it himself, but the footman standing frozen by the front door reminded him he had servants now. He didn’t know what footmen did besides act as human hat racks, but he’d teach the lad new tricks.
Enoch raced back up the stairs as if all the hounds of hell were on his heels.
From some invisible nook, Cat shouted triumph. “I found him! He’s orange and I can see him.”
“Children,” Simon said with a dismissive shrug, handing the letters to the footman. “I need these delivered to Hargreaves Hall. Can you handle that?”
“Yes, sir, of course, sir.” The lad tugged his forelock and all but groveled.
Aye right, he’d see how that worked. Assured the lad didn’t see anything wrong with the abnormal behavior of his children, Simon let him run off and went in search of his straying daughter. Cat was rump up, half inside the coat closet under the stairs. He was pretty certain it was Cat. Clare didn’t run and shout.
“The pup doesn’t belong inside, lass. Did Cook say to take him out?” He crouched down to tug her out.
He expected her to be covered in dust, but apparently, the maids were preparing for Hogmanay with a vengeance. Cat sat back on her plump rump and glared at him. “We are playing hide and seek, but he will not come out when I find him.”
Simon gazed at the gaping maw of the closet and a black memory seized him. He reached for the flask in his pocket but resisted. “He’ll come out when he’s ready. Go on upstairs where you belong.”
Cat pouted and crawled back in.
Where the devil was Olivia? Or the nursemaids?
Fortifying himself with a sip while Cat wasn’t looking, Simon got down on his knees and peered into the darkness. No one was in danger. He could do this. He pulled Cat out again and stuck his arm inside, pushing aside boots and fallen scarves. As soon as the pup approached to sniff his fingers, he grabbed it by the scruff and dragged it out, hiding a sigh of relief. “Does it have a name?”
“I call her Silky,” Cat said with a defiant pout.
“And what does Enoch call her?” Unnaturally relieved at not having to enter the closet, Simon lifted the mutt. “Him. Silky is a him.”
“Bugly,” she replied. “That’s an awful name. Is Silky a girl’s name or a boy’s name?”
“I don’t know any boy who would want to be called Silky. And Bugly doesn’t sound very proper either. Take the creature back where it belongs. Who is minding you?”
Cat looked wary. “Miss Betsy. But we don’t have school. Miss Liv said so.”
Miss Betsy? Had anyone mentioned a new nursemaid? And since when had Lady Hargreaves become Miss Liv? It was all a mystery.
Emma arrived, apparently in search of straying nieces. “There you are! Did you find the pup? What color is he?”
“Mostly orange,” Cat said matter-of-factly, even though the dog was plainly brown and white.
“Let’s go ask Miss Liv what that means.” Emma sent Simon an almost apologetic look. “Everyone is cleaning house for Hogmanay, and the new nursemaid doesn’t quite understand the children yet. Lady Hargreaves said she’s promising though.”
“I don’t quite understand,” Simon said with a growl. “One maid scrubs the floor and the other lets the animals run across it?”
“Lady Liv wants us to be prepared for anything,” Emma said cheerfully, following Cat and the puppy out.
Prepared for anything—the lady was preparing his children for what? The apocalypse?
The whisky had calmed him and memories of last night warmed him, so he didn’t storm off looking for straying nursemaids. Instead, assuming the lady wasn’t in the nursery or the children would be better behaved, Simon followed Emma down the corridor.
Aunt Maggie was in the dining hall directing a pair of maids in dusting from the top down. Delicious aromas drifted up from the kitchen. Emma and Cat vanished into a small room Letitia once used for her housekeeping books. It was probably meant for a mudroom or pantry, but she’d set up a table and shelves and shut herself in when she wanted quiet. He hadn’t been in there since Letitia died, and he didn’t want to encounter another closet now.
The door wasn’t closed, and he heard voices. It wasn’t a mine shaft. If he wanted to see Olivia, he could do this. He resisted the flask the lady so heartily disapproved of.
“Orange is a healthy color.” He heard the lady reassuring his daughter. “It probably means he’s playful and active. But you must keep watch and learn if you see other colors.”
“I donwanna call him Bugly,” Cat complained.
“I do not wish to call him Bugly,” the lady corrected. “And I can understand that. But Bugly is Enoch’s dog. The name is his choice. Where is your kitten?”
“Sleeping.”
Simon could hear the pout in the brat’s voice. Deciding he need not squeeze into the closet’s confines, he leaned his shoulder on the door jamb. Olivia was in a practical dark blue gown that made her eyes the color of summer skies. She wore a frilly cap to cover the hair he’d undone last night. Emma, on the other hand, looked as if she’d just come in from a tramp outside in her muddy boots and plain brown walking dress. And Cat, of course, wore a smock smeared with her breakfast.
He was rewarded for his effort by catching a naughty look of mischief when they turned to him. “Orange?” he inquired, raising an eyebrow.
Emma picked up the pup. Olivia gave Cat a gentle push, propelling her toward the door.
“Back to the nursery, young lady. You have proved your point. I want you to tell me all the other colors you see when I come up later.” Olivia picked up her pen and waited expectantly.
“Daisy dinnae hear me,” Cat complained, stomping in his direction as if he didn’t exist. “And Miss Betsy thinks I’m silly.”
She was four years old. Of course, the nursemaids didn’t listen. A child shouldn’t even notice they weren’t listening.
Cat glared up at him as if it were all his fault, whatever it was.
“I can too see colors.” She stomped past without waiting for agreement.
Emma simply giggled and brushed past him. “I’ll take the pup back to the kitchen.”
Which left him alone with the lady, finally. “Colors?” he demanded.
If he weren’t plagued by the stuffiness of this cramped closet, he’d close the door behind him and kiss her until both their heads spun.
“Cat sees auras. I’ve never tried to see an animal’s aura, but they seem very apparent to your daughter. If Phoebe is able to come for the party, she might help. She talks to animals. It might be enlightening to compare what Cat sees to what Phoebe hears. May I help you with anything?”
> This Hogmanay party kept growing. If his cousin and his new wife were coming from Edinburgh, who else had he theoretically invited?
“What the hell is an aura?” was the topic he settled on.
Olivia pursed her lips while she considered her reply. “It’s hard to explain. As I understand it, our spirits are an essence that inhabits our physical bodies. Perhaps they may be called an energy. And that energy has color.”
“It better not be witchcraft,” he warned.
She glanced up at him with a smile. Her eyes suddenly went silver-blue, and she froze for just half a second, not so long that he might have noticed had he not been studying her. A vague feeling of unease crept through his bones.
“Your essence is such a strong, vivid rainbow of reds that I can only say that you’re passionate, energetic, realistic, and probably in a constant state of conflict.” She said that with a laugh. “You are an honest man who cannot be anything but honest.”
“Red,” he scoffed, relaxing at the foolishness. Colors had naught to do with witchcraft. “As if I’d be caught dead in red. What are you doing in here?” He gestured at the wall of housekeeping books—one of which was open on the table.
“Adding half a dozen servants to the rolls is expensive. I wanted to see if you could make some economies to cover at least the task of clothing all of them. I thought it was the least I could do in gratitude for your rescuing them.”
She gestured at a page with her pen. “You don’t have enough tenants providing you with milk and eggs. Your cook has to have them transported from elsewhere, since the village has no grocer, and that’s costly. Buying just one cow and a dozen hens and letting one of your tenants tend them could save you three times their cost over the next few years.”
“I’m not a farmer,” he complained. “I know naught of chickens and eggs.”
“And you don’t need to,” she reassured him. “Mr. Hill will know your tenants and how to purchase cows and chickens. He’s an excellent steward. And Sally, Aloysius’s aunt, has an aptitude for numbers. She can learn from Cook about what your kitchen needs, and I can teach her how to calculate costs. If you use your new staff well, they’ll practically pay for themselves.”
He opened his mouth to say something, but nothing emerged. As usual, she’d taken his breath away. He hated when she did that, didn’t he? He finally twisted his head back around and got it on straight. “Shouldn’t Maggie or Emma be able to figure costs?”
“Did Letitia? She kept neat figures, but I can tell nothing of her. I assume her family is from around here, but your aunt is from Glasgow and knows no more of cows than you do, I imagine.”
“Letitia’s family is mostly educators and ministers and the like. I doubt there’s a cow among them. How does a card player’s daughter know of cows and hens?” He honestly wanted to know. She fascinated him beyond endurance.
She shrugged. “I spent many a summer at my grandparents’ farm. I met Owen when I sold him a cow I’d raised. Or half raised, since I went to school in winter. I have more in common with your tenants and servants than I do the guests we’ve invited for tomorrow. I was happy helping Owen improve his estate.”
“We’re a sad pair, are we not? Mourning that the happiest part of our lives is gone?” Letitia had been the love and light of his life, as apparently the viscount had been Olivia’s. Lust was a poor substitute, but far safer, especially with a woman who spoke of auras and encouraged his children to use their abnormalities.
“I take life one day at a time.” She glanced down at a small figure in green crawling from under the table. “You’re awake, sleepyhead. Should we see if they have tea in the nursery yet?”
Simon stepped out of the way so she could lead her adopted daughter up the stairs. Olivia was a lady who deserved to be loved, and he would never risk the heartbreak of love again. He should probably see what he could do to hurry her departure to the Hall.
Which meant removing the scoundrels occupying it.
He needed to speed those lawyers along, or he’d be knocking down the walls of this closet so he could breathe when he sought her out.
Simon Blair was a confusing maelstrom of boiling emotions. Olivia shook her head in disbelief that she’d actually showed him her gift, and he’d effectively shrugged it off. She never told anyone about her ability, if it could be avoided. She could not possibly hope to understand a man who was so honest that he thought everyone was what they seemed—a man who had the ghost of his late wife weeping in his halls and didn’t even recognize it.
She’d learned deception at her father’s knee. She would have to remember that what she and Simon had shared in bed had just been physical. They were not compatible in any other way.
Returning Evie to the nursery, she watched Simon’s adolescent sister-in-law bundle up in an old servant’s coat.
“I do not like this, Emma,” she told the girl. “I can arrange to meet with the Hall’s staff in the village. There is no rush.”
“Sally says the maids at the Hall have been abused,” Emma said in an angry whisper. “We need to remove the abusers and send them packing. Yes, there is a reason to rush.”
“I don’t think the men will attack Mrs. Jameson. She’s the only upper staff left,” Olivia retorted, half in admiration at the child’s willingness to address wrongs, half in amusement that Emma knew so little of human nature. “All the women of any interest have fled from what I can ascertain.”
“I’ll be fine,” Emma said. “I’ll go to the kitchen door. Enoch and Aloysius and Joey will accompany me and throw things if there is any trouble. All I want to do is what we planned, determine how many servants are left and how many guests are in residence.”
“And if it’s possible to enter unlocked doors,” Olivia added wryly. “I’d meant to do that myself.”
Emma grinned. “You’re busy and I am not. A good haunting will have them out, but it needs to be timed properly. It will do no good if they’re oot their faces, as Simon might say. They need to be sober enough to pack up and run.”
“You need to be sent to university soon,” Olivia said with resignation. “You’ll turn into a troublesome rustic unless you find better occupation.”
“Did no one tell you? I’m a horticultural genius. Rustication sounds like heaven. I need a greenhouse, not an expensive education. I’ll try to keep the boys in line.” She cheerfully let herself out, whistling for her aides-in-terror.
Olivia knew she should object. Enoch and Joey were barely seven and Aloysius only nine. But she was fairly certain they’d come to no harm. If the Hall’s guests were assaulting women, Emma was the one in danger.
Biting her bottom lip, Olivia tried to determine who she might send with the girl, but all the men would report to Simon, and he wouldn’t appreciate or understand what Emma meant to do.
Bertram, the new footman, rapped cautiously on her open door some time later. Susan had hemmed his trousers but hadn’t had time to fit him for a new suit. Bertram had been at the Hall when Owen had come into it and had hoped to one day replace Jameson, she knew. She nodded for him to speak.
“Sir Harvey and Miss Charlotte Hamilton come to call, my lady,” he announced formally, producing their cards on a silver platter.
Olivia raised her eyebrows, did a hasty check to see that she wasn’t covered in dust or cat hairs, then followed him down the corridor to the front of the house.
A stout, bewhiskered gentleman paced in front of the parlor’s mullioned windows. Olivia recognized him and the plump spinster wearing a billow of pink silk. Charlotte Hamilton had taken a wing chair in front of the grate, which Olivia noted was well fueled and burning nicely. Bertram was already becoming an asset.
Aunt Margaret waited with them, looking officious in her role as chaperone and companion and whatever else she envisioned herself. “Lady Hargreaves, you have callers. Have you met Sir Harvey and Miss Hamilton?”
“Years ago, of course.” Olivia advanced into the room to offer her hand to the older ma
n, then settled in a chair across from his daughter. “Miss Hamilton, you appear to be in the bloom of health. I am so happy to see you!”
The girl looked a little uncomfortable, but she produced what sounded like a rehearsed speech. “It is good to have company of consequence in the neighborhood again.”
Ouch. What was Mr. Blair, fried cheese? This was the kind of disrespect that had brought about the tragedy of his wife’s death. Olivia clenched her teeth, said nothing, and forced her guest to continue.
The girl rattled on nervously. “I take it you have settled your differences with the new viscount?”
Ah, the raison d'être of this visit. . . “Hargreaves does not acknowledge my existence, and I do not acknowledge his,” Olivia said blithely. “We are in perfect accord.”
Miss Hamilton apparently didn’t know how to respond to this. She knitted her fingers.
“I understand you lost your son,” Sir Harvey said gruffly, stepping into the awkward silence. “I am sorry to hear that.”
“Thank you.” Olivia nodded acknowledgment, although Sir Harvey had never accepted Bobby’s impaired existence when he’d been alive. Still, for Mr. Blair’s sake, she’d cultivate the old man’s goodwill. “To lose a child is a mother’s greatest fear and grief. How have you been, sir?”
“Well, thank you. Will Hargreaves attend your social tomorrow?” He stiffly took the sofa in front of the window, glancing suspiciously at Mrs. Dunwoody, who had taken out her knitting.
“He’s courting me,” Miss Hamilton said shyly.
Oh, dear. With a sigh, Olivia opened her inner eye to study her guests. Hamilton was his usual sour, anxious self. Charlotte—was a confusion of colors, need, hopes, and nothing particularly solid. Olivia judged her bored and dissatisfied, but she didn’t see love anywhere in the spectrum. Rubbing her temple against the ache from the strain, she proceeded cautiously.
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